


Walk beside me… just be my friend

by adastra615



Series: The Sun and Planets [3]
Category: The World's End (2013)
Genre: Abusive Dad, Child Abuse, Fights, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Panic Attacks, Pining, Present Tense, Self-Harm, Stream of Consciousness, Swearing, Underage Driving, abuse of commas, aka Gary King's very bad day, basically it's a mess like these tags, but fluff too, friends - Freeform, grand theft auto?, i took a year long gap in writing this, seriously so much abuse of poor gary, set during highschool years, you can probably tell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 16:18:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8109136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adastra615/pseuds/adastra615
Summary: Sequel to Unsettling Revelations.  Gary's dad is in town and Andy's there to pick up the pieces.





	

Light seeps in under the blind and when Gary opens his eyes he pulls his head back - and fuck does it hurt. The inside of his nose feels congested and heavy and each inhale causes the pain to burn up into his sinuses.  And god, his left eye too. He crinkles his nose just to feel it again. Yep hurts.  Arm hurts too, and his jacket sleeve is crusty and dry against his skin.

  And where the hell is he anyways? Not his room, he thinks as he tries to blink it all into some form of comprehension.  It’s still gray in here – dim. He reads the lighted numbers from the digital clock a few feet from his head - even those deep red lacerations of light somehow too bright. His pupils constrict painfully.  Seven, he thinks it says. There’s a heaviness against his side and he turns his gaze downwards, and all he can think in some sort of disconnected haze is, _that’s not my arm_ , and a little giggle of laughter - hard to say where it comes from - finds it’s way up and out of him and he turns his head to see Andy still asleep, his mouth slightly open and a bit of drool making its way down his chin. 

 _All right, yeah, that’s what happened,_ he thinks _.  Came here loaded, shimmied my way up the rain spout, broke into the Knightley fortress, scared the shit out of my best mate. In more ways than one_ he appends himself. And it’s all this sort of rush of sound and color and a sickening flight from his house to get here that he can’t even remember what his intention was. Just this need to get away. He didn’t want Andy’s sympathy though. Just tired and out of his head. Somewhere to close his eyes for a minute and what? Feel safe.  Yeah, he figures. That’s it. Though there’s no way he’d admit that shit. He doesn’t move Andy’s arm, just lies there and feels that weight against his side.  There’s always a weight when someone touches you, he thinks, his mind seeming a dull roar in that moment, those lingering grains of white powder burning the inside of his nose.

 He can remember the shock when his Dad slugged him. It was fast, but there was weight and intention behind it and that sort of thing liked to burrow deep in you, and sit and wait and remind you to toe the line a little less closely next time, maybe never go home again. Because here it’s warm and that weight against his side is different, even if surely unintentional on Andy’s part - he always did flop around like a fish when sleeping, sprawling his limbs in every which way. But whatever, it didn’t matter.  Nah, he’d take this any day. Sure there’s no permanence, he doesn’t expect there to be, but for that minute or however much longer he had - what the hell time did Andy set his alarm for, anyway? - he’d take this, and run with it, because it was a feeling he wasn’t too acquainted with, but one he’d like to have more of. _Shit_ , he thinks, _this is some kind of love, isn’t it._   _That’s fucking weird_ , figures he’ll have to think about it later or something, or maybe not at all.

There’s footsteps at the door, and oh yup that’s right he’d said he’d be out before Andy’s parents were up, and well, there’s only one thing to be done. He rolls off the bed, regretting that action when the impact with the cold ground sends a whole new litany of pains through his body, and forces his way under the bed. _God, Andy keeps a lot of shit under here,_ he thinks, but he wedges himself amongst it and waits, breathing through his mouth because he’d give himself away with the god-awful snorting noise his nose is making.

“Andrew, honey!” A shrill voice fills the room. “You’re going to be late and you know your father isn’t in the taxi service and for that matter neither am I.”

“Andrew-honey,” Gary mouths under the bed and grins.  He’ll save that one for later.

“Wha-“ a groggy Andy says above, and Gary watches the bed shift as he moves.  Then it seems like Andy must have shot up in bed, because all of a sudden Gary’s feeling a lot more compressed, and he’s so tempted to push back against the lump that must be Andy’s ass. He figures Andy’s shitting himself right about now trying to figure out where Gary’s gone to.  And the expression that must be on his face is too much, and Gary has to clamp a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing. His breath is hot against his hand, and geez it hurts to move his arm.  He’d cut too deep. The thought sobers him a bit.

Andy rolls across the bed, grabs his alarm clock and nearly drops it. “Shit, shit,” he whispers, then shouts towards the door. “All right, Mum. Be out in a sec.”

He continues to mumble expletives under his breath, as Gary watches him dart about the room. Oh God he looks like such a twat, and Gary has to cover his mouth again to stop from laughing. Then he has an evil thought. He maneuvers himself carefully through the junk pile that is the underside of Andy’s bed, careful not to push anything out until he’s next to the edge and he waits for Andy to get close.  Andy stumbles, pulls on a pair of trousers, grabs a sock, drops it, manages to pull one on, is hopping about, and then Gary strikes.

His arms snake out from under the bed and he grabs Andy’s ankles. “Andrew, honey!” he shouts.  Andy screams at the tops of his lungs and topples backwards, pulling Gary with him halfway out from under the bed. “Holy fucking shit,” Andy says in-between trying to catch his breath. “Gary, I’m going to murder you.”

And Gary thinks, he’s certainly making a face that probably many wouldn’t live to recount. And he expects that Andy might smack him or go for a punch, or maybe even send a kick his way. And when he’s preparing to counter that attack, though what the hell he going to do stuck halfway under the bed one of his Docs caught, he watches all the anger drain away. Andy’s shoulders slump. _That’s weird_ , he thinks. Andy wasn’t one to back down, especially if Gary decided to play him. They’d given each a few good thumpings with no hard feelings.  And yet, he gets this weird feeling from Andy he doesn’t like.  Pity or something.

  _Shit,_ he thinks. _I should never have come here. Shouldn’t have let Andy see me like that.  Gotta fix it._ He thumps Andy on the leg. “Andrew-honey, you’re going to be late.” He says doing his best Mrs. Knightley impression, his voice taking on a falsetto.  “Don’t want to make dear ol’ pops drive you to school, now do you Andrew-hoooney?”

“Oh fuck off Gary,” Andy says. “You’re supposed to be out of here already. You bloody promised. And you’ve just wasted another five minutes.  And I’m pretty sure, you’re going to be late too, especially since you’ll be running to school.”

“Thought I’d catch the bus with you.”

“I don’t think either of us will be doing that.” Andy points to his clock. “There it goes. And-“ he raises a finger, “You’re not riding with me.”

“I have a plan,” Gary says, and with not an insignificant struggle manages to free himself from the detritus of Andy’s bed. “Meet me at the end of the block! It’s a fucking stellar plan, Andy!” He says, jumps up and makes for the window.  He pulls himself awkwardly out on to the ledge, and wraps a hand around the drain pipe. _Shit that makes a lot of racket,_ he thinks, as he manages to wrap his legs around it. He’s barely holding himself up as it is. _Eh, ten feet,_ he figures looking at the ground. That won’t hurt too much. He slides down maybe another foot then lets go. He catches himself in a crouch on the lawn. That had to look fucking badass. Too bad everyone’d miss it. Didn’t break his ankle either, not bad.

He has a foggy recollection from the night before of a streetlamp casting light on two ten speed bikes laying in some saps yard. They’d be easy to pinch, but when he gets to the end of the block they’re gone. He can still see the mashed grass where they’d been left. His house is about a half mile from Andy’s, but if he takes a few shortcuts he knows he can get there in under three minutes.  The idea hits him like a fist to the nose, and God it’s a dumb one, but that thought barely manifests before he’s off and running.

That’s probably enough time for Andy to get all his shit together and out the door.  He hops one fence, landing peacefully on the other side, his shoes sinking into mud. The next ones higher. He doesn’t stop to think about it, grabs the metal, feels in cut into his hands, and he’s up and over, landing awkwardly, one foot sliding a bit against the wet soil, and he does some unsightly split like maneuver but stays upright, and shit he’s making bad time. So he sprints, and god does he love that feeling: the morning air rushing past his face, deep in his lungs, almost painful, but each breath so earned. He’s alive; he’s fast; he’s young; everything should be before him, and in that speed, the pull at his muscles, the pounding of his heart, he can believe it. He rounds the corner and there’s his dad’s lithe red car. And he knows he’s going to take it.

Gary bounces from foot to foot.  _Have to get the keys,_ he thinks. They’re inside on the counter next to the ash tray.  _Fuck it,_ he thinks and tries to peer into the window but can’t see anything. If he’s lucky his dad will be piss-drunk passed out on the couch.  The doors unlocked and he pushes it open. Wipes his shoes on the mat, because his mum would want him to, there’s long strands of grass and caked mud. And he stands in the foyer, head slightly cocked trying to see if he can hear anything. He doesn’t shut the door in case he needs a quick exit.

And there he is laid out on the couch like some beached slug of a human being.  One hand drifting lazily; a bloodied knuckle caressing the floor. His face pressed into the back of the sofa and slow labored snores breaking the silence.

 _What a stroke of luck_ , Gary thinks and moves quietly into the kitchen. It’s a mess. Dishes piled up, broken shards of glass scattered across the floor. Gary remembers the cup flying his way, and ducking so that it exploded into sharp jagged spears that rained over his shoulders. There’d been some in his hair, he remembered. He’d brushed it out before he’d climbed the spout at Andy’s.

 _If his Mum were here,_ he thinks _, she would hate this_. She kept it spotless. He ghosts his fingers across the dirtied plates, thinks he should tidy it up for her, then remembers that Andy’s probably on the street corner wondering where the fuck he’s at. He grabs the keys, lets the metal bite into his fingers, and stops in the hallway.  No way’d his dad left it. He turns back around and enters the den. His dad lets out a great groan of a snore, and shifts a bit. Gary freezes, his heart somewhere in his esophagus and drops down into a crouch. His dad’s pretty much spread himself out in a diameter that encompasses the couch and small coffee table: all his junk, his threadbare backpack with all his clothes, empty bottles of beer, and cans when he’d run out of that.

Gary picks one up lying on its side, and hears the liquid slosh about. He takes a sip, it’s warm and bitter, and smells like cigarettes like his dad, but he finishes it and tosses it aside. There’s some much needed courage, he thinks, and pulls out his dad’s shaving kit, the zipper horrendously loud in the silence. And next to his toothpaste, next to his razor and shaving cream, there’s still a dime bag of coke and Gary can barely believe he hasn’t moved it. He pockets it, squeezes the keys in his fingers and darts out the door, shutting it this time as silently as possible.

 “Fuck you,” he says, then gleefully slides across the hood of the red coupe landing on the right side with a satisfying thump of the soles of his Docs against the concrete. He unlocks the door, pushing empty cups and packages and plastic bags down into the passenger side _. Let Andy deal with it. He’ll be shitting himself anyways_ , he thinks. And a huge grin comes across his face thinking of Andy’s expression. This has got to make up for last night.  He can’t think about what he’s done. What it will mean later. But he grabs his dad’s pair of aviators sitting on the dash and crams them on his face. The car roars to life when he turns the key and the feeling vibrates up through his spine. He can count on his fingers and with one toe how many times he’s driven. He’s still more than a year off from getting his license but fuck if that’s stopped him.

Mostly though, his mum’s let him take her rusty car out around empty car lots. He figures the road can’t be much different. One pedal means go, the other one, eh, who needs that one?

She’s at a hotel. She thinks he’s staying at Andy’s. They’re supposed to stay out of his dad’s way until he decides to move on. If the past is any indication that should be in a few days, could be more than a week though. One time he stuck around for a month. Trashed the house. Fucked up their lives. “Well, here’s to you, you piece of shit,” Gary says, and flips the v to the front window, before slipping the car into reverse and pulling out onto the road.

Sometimes he feels like there’s two of him. The one for his friends and the one at home, especially when his dad is around. And he can’t quite articulate it right, but when they mix he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like showing the home-Gary to any of his mates. That’s not the person he wants to be. He’s young, he’s alive, that Gary King doesn’t get bad, doesn’t think sometimes he might be better off dead. He lives like a rock-star; in the present, fueling himself with drugs and alcohol, because it’s fun, not because he’s sad, and he keeps telling himself that almost to the point where he can believe it.  But he’d let those two Gary’s get mixed up the night before, showed a side of himself to Andy he doesn’t like. But he figures that Andy will forget all about it when he sees the car.

Andy’s standing on the curb, looking at his watch. If only he was tapping his foot then it’d be perfect. Gary pulls the car up close. “Oi,  Andy,” he shouts.

At first he looks glazed like he’s still half asleep and then his eyes widen and his mouth falls open. And Gary immediately feels better. “Andy! Get in!”

“Wha- whe-, how the hell…?” Andy says closing the door, his eyes wide. “What the hell, Gary?” But his voice is doing that thing where he can’t quite believe the feat Gary’s carried off. Fucking amazement!

And Gary watches Andy try to figure it out.

“This is your dad’s car,” he says. “Shit, Gary. You’re fucking mental.”

Gary waggles the aviators. “Let’s just say we’re taking it for a little spin.” He slams his foot down onto the pedal. The car jumps and he pulls the clutch shifting into 2nd then 3rd. And Andy’s white-knuckling it next to him. Gary loves the feel of the car, the speed, the knowledge that whatever happens is completely in his control.

“Gary, that was a stop sign.”

“I know,” he says gleefully. To be fair, he’d looked both ways. There hadn’t been anything coming, well, at least not too close at least. There’s two miles to go to the school and he really wants to see how fast he can make it go. “Hold on to something, Andy,” he says. And Andy has this half look of terror and excitement fighting for dominance on his face.

“Oh, shitshitshitshit,” Andy yells as Gary pushes the car further, shifting it into 4th. The car whines and hums against the effort. And then the speedometer shifting rapidly from 50 to 55 to 60. And Andy’s laughing next to him. And well, he loves that. He fucking loves it when he can make Andy laugh.

And everything's flying past them in a blur of greens and grays and blues, and when he looks to the side he can't make anything out, can't separate things into their parts anymore, and it's like being in some sort of vortex, like back to the future or some shit like that. And he's about to say that to Andy, when Andy grips his arm and points at the glass. "Truck, Gary. Truck, truck!" And he slams on the breaks, and the car lilts to the left, his heart is pounding in his ears and it all seems to go in slow motion, and the brake pedals on the floor, there's the squeal of tread, and the smell of burning rubber. _Fuckfuckfuck_ , he thinks and then they stop. There's maybe three inches between the bumper and the back of the gray truck in front of them.

 "Holy shit!" Gary says, and Andy's still gripping his arm, his fingernails digging through the cloth of his trench coat.

"I'm walking," he says, and Gary can't tell if he's joking, but he fumbles for the door. And he can still feel the heat of Andy's hand.

 "Hey, Andy, Andy, wait. Not so fast. I have a proposition you'll find impossible to turn down. " He turns the car off and pulls the keys out of the ignition and they swing around his finger. He pauses for emphasis. "Your turn," he says and tosses the keys towards Andy. And geez his hearts still pounding so loud in his own head. How fucking close had they come to dying right then?

 "Really? " And there's that grin.

 "Yeah, high-time you learned to drive, my dear Andy,” he says and cackles, and proceeds to crawl over the seat divider. The truck in front of them is long gone and the car lurches forward when he takes his foot off the brake.

 "Oi, put it in park.”

 "Oh, that's right," Gary says and stomps down on the brake and shifts the transmission. Gary crawls back over, practically sitting in Andy's lap.

 "You could have gone around, you know?"

 "And miss this opportunity?"

Andy gives him a light punch on the arm and opens the door. Gary settles into the seat. He's still shaking a little, adrenaline, excitement whatever it is, it makes him want to move, and he can't . Andy pulls the door shut behind him.

"This _should_ be interesting,” Gary says and sits up a little straighter, making a show of putting on his seatbelt.

 "I've driven before," Andy says looking a bit lost. The keys dangling from his index finger.

 "Never on the open road though." Gary tries to suppress the laughter upon seeing Andy's expression. And he says it slowly, like an asshole. "Now, Andy where do the keys go?"

 "Shut up, Gary. I'm figuring it all out."

 "Oh, that fucking mind trick thing again." Something Andy picked up last month in his psychology class. "I'll be sixty and decrepit by the time, you've visualized the whole thing. I'll have four children and a beautiful wife, and fifteen grandchildren, and thirty great-grandchildren and they'll be standing around my death bed saying their farewells, and crying, uncontrollably, before you---" Andy turns on the car, grabs the clutch and shifts it forward, and they're lurching down the street, the car groaning, gaining speed, and then with a great rumble, it stalls.

 "What was that?!" Gary reaches across trying to get the keys and Andy shoves him back. "Driving privileges revoked."

“Well, I didn’t nearly drive us into the back of a lorry, now did I?”

“It’d be preferable to this.” And then he feels kind of bad, because yeah they probably could have died.  But then again, they didn’t.  And Andy’s mum is nowhere as lenient as Gary’s.  The only time Gary knows of Andy getting behind the wheel was when they’d used her car.  And Andy’s looking more frustrated than happy. 

“We’re so fucking late,” Andy says with a little moan when he looks at his watch.

A car flies past them pulling into the opposite lane, horn blaring. “Ah fuck off.” They say at the same time, raising their middle fingers in unison and then they’re both laughing.  

“Guess we might as well blow off the rest of first period, then, “Andy says rubbing a hand under his eyes.  And that’s all Gary wants to hear. 

"All right, Switcharoo," Gary says and once again climbs over the seat divider. He drives them over to the park and stops and idles in the middle of the parking lot. There are a few joggers but it’s mostly open. "Your dad's going to kill you," Andy says like maybe on the way there that thought had just come to him.

 "Like to see him try," Gary says. “Now you want to drive or not?"

"Hell yeah!"

 They switch once again. And after maybe about twenty minutes, Andy's driving smoothly, alternating between second and third. And he's grinning like a maniac. And Gary's leaned back in the seat with his eyes closed, just feeling the movement of the car. And then Andy grabs the wheel and twists it to the right as hard as he can and they're spinning and Gary's grinning, digging his hands into the arm rests.

"Woo, Andy! That's more like that. Do it again!"

Andy slams on the breaks, pushes down on the gas and they’re moving diagonally across the car lot. Andy grabs the wheel and Gary has the slightest moment to catch this piratical look from him and then they’re spinning so fast that he has to brace himself against the glass and it all rotates around them: colors, green and blue, the sunlight catching the mirrors and scattering it across the asphalt, and his head is spinning and he’s laughing so hard that his bruised shoulder and ribs give him an electrical jolt of pain. Oh man, he loves this. If he could stay like this forever he would- In this strange vortex of color divorced from time next to his best mate. He can’t think of one worry.  

“I’ve created a monster!” Gary shouts when they come to a stop.  Andy’s still laughing. “Come on then.” Gary says and opens the door, everything rotates strangely about him and he almost loses his balance.  He’s see Andy look at his watch.

 “Oi, none of that.  Look mate, I think you’ve got to carry me. You scrambled my brains a bit with that last one.”  And he launches himself at Andy, leaping onto his back. “Tally-ho!”

“Shit, Gary. You’re like a bag of rocks.”

“Am not.”

“Grab on to my neck, or somethin’ cause I’m going to drop you.”

Gary wraps his arms around Andy’s shoulder, and brings them together under his chin.  He rests his head on top of Andy’s and he can smell his shampoo. 

“God, you’re so gangly.”

“All part of the charm.”

“Ha, and what charm is that?”

“Start walking, Sir Knightely.” And Gary bursts into giggles. “You ever think about that? Sir, knight.  Knightley.”

“Gary, you only bring it up the every 5th time I see you.  And I really _will_ drop you.” But Andy starts moving.  The sun beats down, but it’s not too hot. Warm really, just right. This is perfect. The car, the driving, convincing Andy to skip first period, really a feat in itself, knowing that he made him laugh like that and look so happy and alive.  That’s all he wants not that sedated dead stare that school puts into their eyes. Nah, anything but that. Anything, but fucking that.  His head’s stopped spinning. A race, he thinks, yah, that’d be fun. He jumps down, slaps Andy on the ass and yells, “last one to the trees, a  wanker,” and takes off. 

“Gary, you shit!” He hears Andy yell, but he’s not far behind.  You’d think for being a bigger gent he’d be slow, but Gary’d learned not to underestimate him early on in their friendship.  Gary was fast, but Andy kind of just bulldozed and you didn’t want to get caught in his way. 

The trees about twenty feet out, and Gary knows if he looks back he’s fucked, so he just puts his head down and moves as fast as he can, and all of a sudden his foots fucking caught in something, and he rolls forward, tries to catch himself and ends up face planting. “Shit! No fair, Andy.” He shouts pushing himself up, looking considerably grass-stained. “You planted this- what the hell is it?” He reaches down and untangles himself from a twisted rotten branch – “this stick – this fucking stick- as part of your dastardly winning stratagem, you bastard.”

“No whinging, Gary.  I won fair and square.” He bends forward breathing heavily. “You might want to look where you’re going next time.”

“I was looking.”

“Ha, you idiot come on. Just come over and I don’t know let’s take it easy or something.  You know I have a fucking test this afternoon, right?” Andy says and plops down on the grass. Gary follows and lies down next to him.

“Well, you passed the driving test with flying colors.”

“Good to know its King approved.  What am I going to do about that mark on my maths test.”

“Come on, Andy. Not now. You’ll make it up. You’re the fucking teacher’s pet. Just relax. I’ll get you there before lunch. We’re taking a much deserved sabbatical. The sun, the trees, the park, just take it all in. Could be the last time we ever see it before the endless winter of our discontent comes to claim our Newton Haven.”

“You know, Gary. I always think for a guy who scratches dicks into his desk during English, you have something of a poetical side to you.”

“Ah fuck off.” But it warms him a little. And he grabs some grass, tears it up from the ground and lobs it in Andy’s direction.  

They walk the rest of the way to school and get there right before the lunch bell. Gary rolls the small bag of coke in his pocket against his fingertips. He’s jittery, the artificial lights in the building are somehow too bright even though they’re dimmer then the sun in the park and he wishes that Andy didn't have that fucking sooo important test. What was wrong with taking the rest the day off?  His arm stings. And fuck is he tired. If he's going to make it through the rest of the day, it's going to take some drastic measures. The halls are mostly empty. "See you’re not bloody late, Andy.  Lunches not even over yet." He slides against the wall eyeing the washroom, his hands in his pocket, holding the bag. "Be out in a minute," he says and nods towards the bathroom. Andy eyes him.

 "Can't a bloke take a piss?"

 "Yeah, and what does this piss entail."

 "Well, I know you're dickless but…"

 "Shut up, Gary."

 "Run along now, I'll catch up with you lot later."

Andy doesn't look reassured, he has his arms crossed, his headed tilted, his eyebrow raised.

“Look, I won't be longer than a minute.”

 "Yeah, all right." Andy still hesitates but eventually turns and walks off. Gary slips into the bathroom, hurries to the stall, locks himself in and pulls the baggie out of his coat.  Just as he's itching to untie the knot and struggling with it, he hears someone else slip in, their feet slipping in the puddle that had formed under the sink. He catches a hint of familiar white trainers. The figure slips and let out a small whimper.

 "Pete?" He says before he can stop himself. "Shit." And then there's the sound of heavier footsteps.

"Come here, you little shit, you're not getting away so fucking easily."

 "Aw, fucking hell." Gary says under his breath.

"Shane, stop, please," he hears Pete say and his trainers move closer to the sink. He can imagine Pete forced up against the sink, cowering, waiting for Shane to shake him down. And he hates that ‘please’.  

"Aww Jesus," he whispers under his breath. Puts the baggie back in his coat, squares his shoulders, shakes his head a couple of times, clearing away the tiredness, and just as he opens the door, Shane swings his fist forward and grasps Pete's collar, threatening to lift him off his feet.

 "Oi," Gary says.

Shane turns his head when he hears the stall hinges creek. Shane's about as tall as his dad, a few inches taller than Gary, larger, but his face is clean shaven, his eyes aren't as tired, there aren’t bags under them like his dad’s. Gary wants to fight; he wants Shane to feel it. Pete's eyes are wide. “Gary," he manages.

 "Oh good, your little goth girlfriend’s here to defend you."

 “Oi, Shane, you know it isn't your fault your mother fucked a gorilla to conceive you. Might want to loosen up a little bit."

Shane's fingers flex around the fabric of Pete's shirt. Shifts his stance. His other fist tightens next to his leg. Gary steadies himself, chancing a darting glance to the left. This isn’t the first time he's had to defend Pete or take on one of his bullies; the kids a magnet for punishment.

 Pete's trembling, one hand raised as if he wants to push Shane away but he's too afraid to make contact. Everything’s still for a moment.

Someone drops a pencil - could be at the end of the hall.

Shane’s jaw clenches, his face tightening, and then his fingers drop from Pete and he pivots. 

Gary sees his fist raise, and he dodges to the left. Shane grabs his arm, but he twists away swinging out his left leg and catching Shane's knee. He stumbles almost loses his balance. Pete dodges out of the way as Shane falls back. He catches himself against the lip of the sink and pushes himself forward. Gary slips in the puddle one leg going in one direction, but Shane grips his collar pulling him back upwards and before he can stop him Shane slams him against the wall, his head connects with the dirty linoleum squares and everything alights, bright sparks fill his vision.

 He has to lift his fist and he forces the motion. His arm moves slowly, but somehow in this warped time he registers how it all feels so familiar: his back against the wall, the warm trickle of blood against his neck, the stench of hot breath above him, a boot stomping down on his foot, trying to hold him in place, 'teach him a lesson', a shatter of glass. And now, now, no more, he thinks, fuck you, fuck you, and really he can't even feel the pain through his foot, his Docs are too thick for that shit and he brings up a fist and somehow no time’s passed at all and he slams his fist into Shane’s nose. Shane drops his grasp and Gary sinks back onto his feet.

 There’s a lull.

Shane’s gone, sometime must have passed. He can't be sure. The lights have settled down against him, bright and he can barely open his eyes. He doesn't see Pete anywhere. And then the bell's ringing and he wonders absentmindedly if Andy's taking his goddamn test. It takes him a moment to crawl to his feet. He feels the back of his head. There isn't blood, but geez it hurts, he lets out a hiss of air when his fingers ghost against it. "Damn you, Pete." Where the hell'd he gone to?

 _He doesn’t want to be here anymore_ , he thinks. Not here, not in the school. He wants to be outside. He wants Andy to come with him. He stumbles a bit, catches himself against the wall and goes out the front door and sits down under a tree close to the car lot. He pulls out his cigarettes. He doesn’t want to be like his dad, he doesn’t want to snort cocaine. His dad smokes too, but then again so does everyone else.  

He puts his head between his knees and lets out a shaky breath. He fumbles with the cigarette packet, drops three on the ground and finally gets one between his lips. He feels for his lighter, but can’t find it, and his head aches, the back of it pulsing with his heartbeat, with the pressure and sparks that linger at the edge of his vision, and he thinks he bit his tongue, but he can’t remember doing it. He tastes blood and he puts his head between his knees, tries to fight the feeling, and he’s breathing too fast, can’t catch his breath.

 “Fuck this.” He stands up and starts pacing, the movement doing little to alleviate the jitter, the feeling in his core that’s pushing up through him, taking control of his limbs, his head. He needs to move, but he doesn’t have anywhere to go. He stumbles against the roots, almost face plants.

And he doesn’t know where he came from but Andy’s there, and he’s gripping his shoulders and moving him away from the school. His lips are moving, but nothing seems to be there and it takes a moment for his brain to catch up. “Gary,” he’s saying. “What the fuck just happened.”

“You’re missing your test,” he mumbles.

“Yeah, I am. Pete about bowled me over in the hall. Said you were fighting Shane in the toilet. I figured it was Shane who left that pool of blood.”

“Got him right in the nose. Cracked my head though.”

Andy’s feels the back of his head and he pulls back. “Shit, hurts.” He mumbles.

And it ignites something in him because he can't breathe. He's digging his nails into his skin trying to pull himself back down, and it hurts but not so much as his head hitting the wall and the resounding thud of his heart. Andy’s there kneeling down next to him. And he needs to move, can’t sit here. All he wants to do it fucking stand up and get away from here. His head's buzzing, some fucking huge adrenaline rush. His arms sting and he realizes that he's dug his nails in so hard that there are crescents full of blood like little morbid ponds, and that's why Andy's trying to pull him to his feet, hold his wrists.

They start walking and the fear that was clenching in his chest keeping him from breathing, from talking, from hearing begins to lessen, and its that contact against this shoulder that he focuses on; Andy's hand, warm through his coat and he holds onto that, his breath coming a little easier with each step. It’s sometime before he feels like himself or at least what he's become lately. Fucking hell, he doesn't know what's wrong. Like he's coming apart at the seams and every day seems to get a little worse - at least while his dad's around that is. If that bastard would just get out of their home then everything would go back to how it was before.

“What happened?” Andy repeats.

"Nothing,” he mutters. His hand aches from where he hit Shane.

"The hell that it's nothing." Andy gets in front of him and grips his shoulders. He doesn’t want to catch his eye, doesn’t think he can look at him and keep lying and trying to be this person, trying to keep everything together when it feels like his world is collapsing around him. He doesn’t know how much longer he can keep going, but he doesn’t want to put that on Andy, doesn’t want to admit to himself. He’s managing, dealing with things on his own, and if it leaves his arms bloody who the fuck cares?

"Gary, you got to talk to me."

"You're missing your test."

 "Yeah, and I’m doing it for you. So you better come out and tell me what the hell's going on. You're,” he hesitates, “you're scaring me Gary.  I've never seen you like this before."

 He shakes his head, tries to break the grasp on his shoulder, but Andy won't let go. "Look at this.  Look.” He grabs his sleeve and shows him the marks, and the cuts, and the dried blood, and his bloodied knuckles.

“What happened in there? What's happening to you? You can't keep it all to yourself.  What the hell do you think mates are for? You wouldn’t just let me do this to myself and not say anything would you?”

“Not now.” Gary pulls his arm back, sliding his sleeve back down and pushes Andy away with a enough force that he stumbles back and then he's moving and he's not looking back, not really sure where he's going, but away from here and away from Andy’s questions.  Then his eye catches on a colorful poster stapled to a utility pole and he remembers that there's the town squares’ festival tonight, and he's made up his mind. They're going there and they’re going to meet Ollie and Steve and Pete and they're going to have a goddamn good time or his name isn't Gary King.

He can hear Andy behind him and as he moves his heartrate starts to slow down and he starts feeling more like himself, maybe some of the energy finding release in his quick pace.  Andy comes to stand beside him. And he looks at him trying to figure out what he's thinking, but his face is blank besides for that creased area between his eyes that Gary thinks makes him look way older than they are, like that's the look he'll wear when he's in his forties.

 "Look, "he says after a moment, hoping that Andy will let it go and he points to the sign he saw earlier. "Almost forgot about it. What's say we group up there tonight? Get the gang there and just forget about all this shit.” He can feel his hand now, stinging, the knuckles bruised from where'd he hit Shane, the back of his head sore. Whatever emotion had been blocking it before, seemingly returning to where it had come from.

 "Come on, my asshole of a father keeps a library of booze at the house - pass the time that way.” He can’t believe it when it leaves his mouth, but yeah he thinks, why not, tempt fate some more, why not? How much worse could it get?

 He really just needs something to slow it all down. He tears the flyer off the pole, and tucks it his coat pocket.

  _Fuck it_ , he thinks. Why should he be afraid?

When he gets there though, he changes his mind - doesn’t want Andy to go in, because he doesn't know where his dad is, or what will happen. There's always that sense of chaos.  No way to determine the outcome.

So he tells Andy to wait outside, doesn’t let him protest too much, but the look he gives him tells him that he's near the end of his tether, and he has a feeling that maybe Andy's putting up with him because he's worried. And goddamn it, he doesn’t want that.

 He ducks in the door.  The house is abnormally quiet. Peeking around the corner he can see that his dad's no longer on the couch. It means he’s most likely in the bedroom on the second floor, and he listens for any movement, but the house is still. He grabs his backpack form the table and starts to dig in the fridge.

His bag is already jostling with beers when he hears the creak of the floorboards behind him and he barely has to time to turn around before the refrigerator door is being pushed shut. He pulls his arm out right before it closes and then he's being slammed against the door, an elbow pushing into his throat. He tries to get away, struggling, kicking out, but his dad has him pinned, and he's growling something unintelligible and it's hard to breathe around the arm crushing his windpipe.

"You think you can steal from me," his dad says and pushes harder. Little stars erupt in his vision. An artery in his neck pulsating hard and fast in in his ears. He gasps for breath and struggles, kicking,trying to swing his arm, trying to get enough leverage to get away. His boot catches his dad’s lower shin, but he only grunts and doesn't let go. His pupils are blown. He laughs.

“Yeah, keep trying, keep trying.”  He pushes harder and now his breath comes in a wheeze, like through a thin straw. The stars blossom outwards like deep dark oil spills spreading across his vision. He kicks again, this time catching his dad's knee and he almost goes down, but it only seems to anger him, and he’s trying to get his words out, but he can't around the hand crushing his windpipe, and he thinks he's bit his tongue, because he can taste blood, and there’s a high whine in his ears, blotches of his vision gone-

Until there's nothing but that pressure, a horrible pain ripping at his chest, as he tries to draw a breath and there's nothing, nothing to catch his lungs against - and that buzz - that whine high in his head - a thick dark pulsing of his constricted blood - growled words so close to his ear – mean nothing – nothing he knows anymore-

 The room comes back into focus. He's staring at the wall, lying on the ground, and there’s a horrible noise, like something dying, and it’s his own breathing coming in heavy sharp sobs that rattle his frame, and his head aches; his mouth tastes like blood and he wipes a shaking hand across and it comes back red. He sits up shakily, but the room is empty. Using the wall to climb to his feet, he stumbles a bit, a wave of vertigo making the room swim in and out of focus. Each inhale is agony against his throat. 

He grabs the bag, still a few beers in it and stumbles out into the yard, trying to straighten himself, pulling his collar up higher in order to block what must be purple bruises across his throat. He tries to play it off, slows his breathing, wipes away the tears and the snot, brushes his hair back from his eyes. His hands are still shaking and his legs feel like jelly, and he tucks his fingers into his pocket, slings the backpack over his shoulder, and goes to find Andy who he'd left at the park across the street.

He stops to open one of the beers and drinks the whole thing, throwing his head back. It’s cold and stinging against his throat, and when's he's done his head is still buzzing but he feels a familiar warmth rising up through his core, flowing into his fingers and toes, helping him think, helping him calm down, and it can't have hit that fast, it must all be in his head, but who the fuck cares? 

The ground wavers under him as he walks and those stars seem to be permanent fixtures in his vison. But he feels calmer and he thinks he can face Andy. What had he been thinking? He should have been more careful. He should have been listening for any sign of him, and yet, he thought it had been safe. Had he been in the living room all along, just waiting for a moment when Gary had his guard down? 

He thinks of Andy's parents; his mom who comes and gets him for school, his dad who always has some inspirational advice to give him on the way out that makes Andy roll his eyes, but Gary figures he takes it somewhat to heart anyway.

 And here, his dad was kicking the shit out of him. He probably freaked and ran when Gary passed out. Probably thought he'd killed him in the state he was in; no fucking rational thought in his head, didn't even give a shit enough to call for help, just left him on the kitchen floor for his mum to find later.

“What a cunt,” he says aloud and spits the blood that was still filling his mouth onto the grass. It doesn’t hurt as much anymore. The beer’s working and he settles the backpack on his shoulder and turns the corner of the house.

 "Hey," he says, and his voice doesn’t sound like his, worse than after chain-smoking a pack.

"Your dad just stormed out of the house.”

 "Guess I scared him off.” He doesn’t like how Andy’s side-eyeing him, trying to look, but not show it. “Here,” he says and tosses the bag to him.

 "Sweet," Andy says and pulls out one of the cans.

They sit under the tree in the empty lot across from his house, drinking the cans of beer and Gary tries to pull himself back together because lately it feels like he’s been drifting, coming apart, and he can’t pinpoint when it started, only that it's much much worse whenever his dad's around.

It’s been a while since his dad’s really been physically violent, really left a mark on him. He feels the hand around his neck, a warmth seeping under his skin. He pushes his collar up once again, not wanting Andy to know.  He must have some inkling, because even though he's talking jovially, telling some joke that Gary can't quite focus on, he gets the feeling that Andy's watching him, assessing him for the right reaction in order to determine if he’s really okay.

 He nods and laughs when he think it's the right time, but god his throat hurts, and his voice comes out a croak, so instead he just pushes the flyer into Andy's hand.  Andy nods at him and Gary leans over to look at his watch. School should just be about out.

They meander their way back to the school.  Gary wonders if that's what what he gets for taking the beers what is his dad going to do when he comes looking for his car. He tries not to think about it, pushes it to the back of his mind.

 They meet up with Steven, Ollie and Pete in the school’s car lot.

"Shit, Gary.” Pete says, "What'd you do to Shane? "

He shrugs.

“He got sent to the nurses’ office because he came back to class dripping blood all over his desk from his nose. Wouldn’t say how it happened but I was like that was my mate Gary, all right."

 "Better question," Gary says, "Where'd you go Pete? " But then he laughs it off. "S'okay,  just wasn't thinking I was going to have to defend your honor when I went into the toilet."

 He catches Oliver trying to peer closer at him and then how his gaze darts to Andy trying to find some answer for why Gary looks like he does.

 "But you know I never shy at the opportunity to kick Shane's ass. Hey, what's say we go raise some hell over at the town square festival tonight?"

 "Which by you mean ride a few rides, eat cotton candy, and make Pete spew it on everything?"

 "Precisely,” Gary says.

They all agree, drop their stuff off at Andy's house because it's on the way, and head towards the town square. They can hear the sounds of it before they’re even close: shouts and laughter, a band playing, the reverberation of the drum coming up through the ground into their shoes. The sky bright blue, clear, crisp, the scent of burning sugar, grease, the screams coming from he Ring of Fire, and the kids staggering from the Gravitron.

Andy buys him some tickets cause he'd left all of his money at home, and Andy doesn't even complain just does it willingly and that worries him a little, wonders what Andy's thinking right about now, keeps see him looking at his neck, at his arm that still stings. His coat’s sticking a bit to it, and he didn't think to look at it again, but probably in the fight with his dad he's reopen those cuts.

They ride the Gravitron , the whole thing reeking of sour sweat, of the rancid oil keeping the gears moving. They plaster themselves against the backboards. This had easily been Gary's favorite as a kid, none of those restraints holding you in place. For those few minutes you gained these almost superhuman powers to walk on he walls, to defy the gravity pulling at your feet.

Pete’s sweating in the dim light that filters through the warped plastic comprising their strange little spaceship. The man operating the machine sits boredly in the middle of the ride. He reads through he rules monotonously, “No sitting, standing, throwing food. Wait for the ride to come to a complete stop before you stand up."

 His voice drones on for another good thirty seconds, before he reaches over to pull the lever. Then they start moving, spinning faster and faster, and first there’s nothing, your feet still against the bottom, but then you could feel it, how things shifted, changed, and you were no longer a part of that ordinary plane of gravity.

 Gary pushes himself up higher so that his feet are no longer touching the ground. He sits against the wall with his knees bent at a forty-five degree angle. He sees Andy do the same.

He smirks when he looks over and sees Pete with his eyes screwed shut, his fists clenched, already turning a shade of green, and he wonders why he even attempted to brave it, because they all know Pete has the weakest stomach among the lot of them and it’s going to end badly for him.

Maybe he feels bad about earlier. Gary feels a little bad himself now but whatever, the cunt walked out on him. Hadn't even gone to get help or anything. Probably just gone to class, leaving him to fight Shane when he already felt like shit. Still it'd been okay, it wasn't like he doubted his ability to take him on. It just would have been nice to have had some back up. It isn’t that much to ask, is it? Especially when this has become a sort of ritual: Shane and he fighting, usually because of something relating to Pete. He swears that kids must have a hard on for the little dweeb. Why else spend so much attention on him?

Ollie's looking a little green himself, but there's still a hint of enjoyment on his face, a small grin. Steven's gaze is fixated on the other side, and of course Gary hasn’t even thought that he might have come because Sam was going to be there.  She’s across the way, directly in front of them on the other wall. No wonder Steven had dragged them this way - the horn dog.

 Gary grins at Andy and points up. Andy nods and they climb slowly to their feet, standing against the plastic, walking almost horizontally, the creak of the machine, and the whir of gears filing the small dark congested area.

The bored operator in the middle catches their eyes, but just shrugs his shoulders, and goes back to reading the magazine he'd been flipping through.

"Spot me,” Gary shouts, doesn't even know if Andy hears him, drops down into a crouch, his whole body feeling slow, unreactive, and he tries to push himself up into a hand stand. Andy catches his ankles and before he can get his legs fully in the air he crashes back down onto the plastic board, and he’s stuck upside down, his feet towards the domed ceiling, and he’s grinning stupidly.

 Andy's laughing having fallen back down into a sitting position, his eyes screwed shut and Gary grins at the ceiling, feeling like this is right; here with his mates and nowhere else; just in this moment, all of them together, being stupid, having fun, not worrying, and with that thought he sees his dad, but he pushes him away because there's no room for that right now. 

That sickening spin. He closes his eyes, feels it in his bones: that nauseating loop in his stomach, mingled with what he thinks must be something real, a happiness he doesn’t recognize. He catches Andy's eyes from his weird angle, and he's still laughing, and he can't help himself. He starts to laugh too, and then he feels himself slipping, the ride slowing, and he tries to scramble, but there’s not enough time and he collapses in a heap, neck first onto the cold metal of the walkway. He jumps up, veering wildly to the left, and Andy grips his shoulders, hauls him back upright and they stumble outside into the light, squinting, moving disjointedly.

 Peter stumbles near his shoulder, and then he's gripping a trashcan, retching, throwing up and slumping to the ground next to them, and Andy's still laughing and he doesn’t think there’s any better sound in the whole world than his mate laughing like that.

"Oh god Pete, why'd you do it?" Gary asks.

 "Thought it'd be okay this time," he struggles to say, still looking rather green, and then he's pulling himself once again over the cusp of the trashcan and losing his lunch.

Gary’s still unsteady and stumbles into Andy who catches him, grabs his shoulders and holds him upright. He lets go and he's surprised by how much he misses that contact.

Steven's gone, disappeared over to where Sam's standing with her friends. Ollie's watching him with a small frown.

"Come on Pete,” Andy says and helps him stand. “Let’s get you somewhere to sit.”

 "Can't stand,” he hisses, but Andy picks him up under his arms and leads him over to the closet bench.

"See not so bad.” He hears him say.

 Gary follows them over.

"Just take it easy.”

 "Get you something to drink?” Andy offers, but Pete shakes his head, still looking pale and shaky.

 "Well, we'll bring you something anyway. I'm starved,” Gary says and looks at Andy who rolls his eyes a little bit, but agrees to buy him something. He opens his backpack and takes out another can of beer, takes a long chug of it and then passes it onto Andy, who nods. “Yeah, yeah.” But takes it anyway, and passes it back when he's done.

 "Lucky you, I'm a generous bloke.”

 “Why do you think I keep you around?"

"My good looks of course,” Andy says.

They buy a variety of deep-fried sugar coated things and go back to sit near Pete, who's looking a little bit better and takes the cup of water Andy offers him.

"Or grow a few hairs on your chest,” Gary says and shoves the can of beer under Pete's nose.

He pulls back, retching a bit, and shoves Gary’s arm away.

"Leave him alone,” Andy says and adds a bit condescendingly, “It's been a trying day.”

 Pete crosses his arms, but doesn't say anything, looking like it’s taking all the energy he has to keep from being sick again.

Pete recovers enough for them to go on to something a bit more sedate. They agree on the bumper cars. Afterwards, they traipse across the lot to ride the Ferris Wheel, stop for a few minutes to hear the band, but pass it off as bullocks. Steve and Ollie have disappeared.

Gary's got his back turned towards the entrance and Andy's telling him how their English teacher almost had a conniption when he saw the latest addition to Gary's desk. "He just stood there, his face turning redder by the second, his fist balling up--" he stops, reaches a hand out and Gary's confused, but he catches Andy's eyes, widening, looking somewhere above his shoulder an he goes to turn, but someone grabs his shoulder and twists hard enough to spin him around.  He goes down hard, his ankle catching on the wet grass and something twists wrong, feels the bones grate, a small pop he doesn't so much hear as feel.

A boot rests on his chest. He’s looking up at his dad, his face red, fists clenched.

"Where' my fucking car, Gary?"

He tries to push himself up, but his ankle buckles and he hits the ground. The grass wet under his fingers. His dad grips his jacket and pulls him upward, his breath smelling like alcohol, his eyes red rimmed.

Gary’s helpless, so tired of this, can't believe that it's happening here in middle of the park in front of everyone.

His dad shakes his shoulders, "Where's my fucking car? Where’s my fucking car?”  Another shake and he tries to twist away, pull himself free, but his ankle won't hold him up.

Andy's hand lands on his dad's shoulder and he's pushing him back like Gary’s seen so many times before.  In all the scrapes they've gotten into, usually Gary can handle himself but sometimes if something gets out of hand he can always rely on Andy to be his muscle, to push through and they have yet to lose a fight because of it. His dad doesn't seem to know what to make of Andy's hand on his shoulder, because he stops yelling, and he just freezes, goes incredibly still, his fingers tightening around Gary's coat, holding him upright. Andy's fingers curl into the fabric of his dad's t-shirt.

 "Let go," he says. And his voice is so calm, that dangerous edge to it.

 His dad doesn't budge, gives Gary another frustrated shake that jars his already aching head, and there's those stars dancing around the edge of his vision, pinpricks of twisted light that he can't really focus on.

He sees Pete from the corner of his eye looking nervous bouncing from foot to foot, but to his credit he hasn't run away, actually takes a step forward when Andy, a little quieter this time, but sounding more deadly, hisses, "Let go."  Because of whatever reason, he's robbed of words, can never think of what to say when his dad has him like this but then he feels the fingers loosen, and he slumps back down to the ground, putting his weight on his right foot and stumbling a bit. Pete grabs his shoulder, keeps him upright, and he doesn’t realize it but Ollie and Steve are standing behind him too.

 Where they came from or when he couldn't have said, but his dad's raising his hands laughing, that nervous tick pulling the side of his mouth upwards to expose yellowed teeth. Looking old and lost, all the fight seemingly leaving him.

"Not looking for a fight." he says with a strange hitch of a laugh. But Andy still has his hand on his shoulder, and Gary doesn’t blame him. His dad might start to act a certain way but it’s no guarantee for what he might be thinking.

He doesn’t know the last time his dad had been in his right mind or if he ever had been. Just a life of addiction and self-abuse, pushing through his days violently without any notion of what he’s moving towards. It’s something Gary hates. He has his future in his sights. He knows what he’s going to be and there’s no way that he’s going to go off the tracks like this sad excuse for an old man standing in front of him, no way in fucking hell is going to be anything like his dad. He'd rather be dead.

 He fishes the keys out of his coat pocket and throws them in the grass at his feet.

 "Have your fucking shit car," his voice stronger than he thought possible. And there he sees it, that anger alight again and his dad goes to take a step forward, his hands out, growling something about how's he going to kill him.

 Andy steps forward and pushes him back. His foot catches in the wet grass, smears backwards and he falls on his ass. He scrambles to his feet, his hands sliding in the muck, and he's cursing as he stands swinging wildly in Andy's direction but catching only air.

 He picks up the car keys from the dirt and shoves them into his trouser pocket. "You're going to get it, boy," he hisses, but he doesn't step forward again, lingers there for a moment, spits on the ground, and raises two fingers, dirty yellow stained fingernails and flips them off. "The fucking lot of you."

He walks away, doesn't look back.

"Fuuuuuck," Steven intones behind them. Gary feels whatever adrenaline that was holding him up deflate and he's leaning heavily against poor Pete who’s trying his hardest to keep him up. He manages to lever himself up, putting weight on his good foot, and gingerly presses his left foot against the dirt, his heart is still pounding in his ears, a mix of anger and fear, and he digs his nails into his palms trying to calm down. It passes after a moment.

 "Think I broke my ankle," he says, hoping in one spot, before Andy wraps an arm around his middle and pulls him closer, keeps him standing.

 "Wonder if he knows where we left it." Gary says but then shrugs, feeling dazed not wanting to think about him or the car anymore, thinking there’s no way he’s going home tonight. He has a sense that he’s going to leave though, that this is going to be the last time he sees him for a long time. Because rather than you might expect, once beaten his dad tended to crawl away.

 The problem Gary found was that he wasn't capable of it, his dad had some kind of control over him that he couldn’t escape, that seemed to linger even when he wasn't there, a dogged fear he didn't like and tried to push past.

"That was fucking mental, Andy," he says, but he can't help the slap-happy sleep deprived grin that comes over his face, because he can either laugh or just completely lose it, nothing else for him.

He leans against Andy. He thinks he'd just like to close his eyes and not move for a little bit. His whole body hurts and he can't think of another time when he's been so bruised, scraped, cut and broken, but at least they're here: his mates, his friends, he wouldn't be anything without them, he realizes.

They agree to break up for the night, even when Gary protests wavering almost drunkenly on his feet. "You need to take it easy," Pete says and Gary laughs because Pete's still an off color. "Thanks for today, Gary,” he says. “You know Shane and all that. I owe you."

 "Yeah you do," he intones, laughs, and punches his arm. Pete wobbles a bit.

"Take it easy Petey, don't try to tackle the Gravitron again, eh?"

Steven and Ollie go off to join Sam and her group again, wishing Gary well, telling him if there's anything they can do just let them know.

He's alone with Andy and they make slow progress out of the park, kids screaming and running, the sun falling down over the horizon, the sky dipping into cotton candy bursts of colors.

 His ankle hurts enough to make his eyes water. Has to be broken he thinks, badly sprained otherwise. He doesn't stop though, doesn't want Andy to do his whole mother hen thing, doesn't think he can take any more of that today. He’ll just give in to it.  But somehow Andy must figure it out, not that it’s hard to see: their pace growing slower and slower and he’s putting more of his weight against Andy. His ankle feels hot, raw, a deep ache. His boot tight around it.

 Andy stops, "Come on, you lout." He kneels. “Hop on.” Gary almost sighs in relief as he climbs on Andy’s back. His ankle instantly feels better, but still each jostle sends a sharp line of pain up his leg. He rests his head against his shoulder. Andy doesn't say anything, and he’s almost asleep, zonked out by the time they make it back to Andy's.

 Andy somehow manages the stairs in his house, and drops Gary onto his bed. He collapses next to him, breathing heavily. It was a good mile from the town square to his house.

 "Geez Gary, I mean I was lamenting missing rugby practice, but I think I'm good now.”

 Gary gives a small laugh, but doesn’t really feel it. He's exhausted, everything hurts, every little movement that he’d somehow seemed invincible against during the day now demanding recognition. And it was all he could do to remain sitting upright on the bed. Just curl up go to sleep forget about all this, but Andy's sitting down by his feet. "You gotta try to get this boot off."

 "I don't want to see," he whines. “It’s not that bad, anyway."

"Hell it isn't. I didn't just drag your ass here for not so bad. You're stubborn, but I could tell it really hurts.”

 Gary leans down with a deep sigh, not having even enough energy to unlace his Docs. The things took ages to put on, even longer to take off, but Andy holds up his hands up. 'I got it."

 Gary digs in his backpack as Andy starts to pull at the laces, each tug sending another sharp jab of pain through his ankle; He pulls out the last beer, cracks the tab, and takes a deep pull.

 "Give me some of that too,” Andy says his hand waving up from where he’s sitting. Gary passes it to him.

The boot starts to loosen around his ankle, and Andy wiggles it a little bit.

 It doesn’t hurt as much as he thought now that the boot isn’t cutting off his circulation, it feels a little better, needles of pain licking at his toes as the blood returns. Andy continues to pull at the laces. "Okay, got it as loose as its going to go. Brace yourself."

“Give me that," Gary says and reaches for the beer. He drains the rest of the can, hoping it will hit him fast.

 Andy grips his leg above the ankle and starts to ease the boot off. He hisses, biting his lip and then it’s off.

"That was a feat of endurance.” Andy says and then leans back,  “Jeeesus.”

Gary looks down at him. "That bad?"

 "Yeah, pretty bad.” He leans down himself peering at his ankle in the dim light, thinking he doesn’t recognize it, that it isn’t his, black and purple, swollen, starting at his ankle all the way down to his toes.

"Fuck," he hisses through his teeth. "What the hell am I supposed to do?" And he realizes as he says it the sentiment applies to everything in his life right now, and he hopes Andy doesn't catch onto that because he doesn't think he can handle that. Doesn't want that.

But then again, if it's from Andy would it really be that bad?

His best mate, the one person in the whole world he feels that he can rely on, would give everything to if he had to, was always there for him, would do anything for him, even worry for him. There weren't many people in his life willing to do that. And he thinks of him pushing his dad away, his hand gripping his shoulder when  his dad went to swing and Gary thought maybe that would be the last straw; that he wouldn't be able to handle anything more after all that had happened to him that day, but then Andy had been there, backing him up.

 Steven, and Pete and Ollie and there’s no one else in his life that he has that are like his best mates. He will do anything for them, and he already knows that, but now the thought is cemented in his head. They are the people who matter the most to him, the people he owes everything to.

Andy’s gone to get the first aid kit form the bathroom, and its after he's done haphazardly wrapping the bandage around, going every which way and they both agree it probably looks right - that he comes to sit back down against the bed next to Gary.

And Gary's so tired he can't really think, but he thinks he loves Andy, and he doesn't really know what that means, but some part of his sleep deprived brain insists that he should lean forward, and he does, and he doesn't think about it just kisses him.

 He tastes like beer, cigarettes, sweat, and he couldn't say how long it went on, but he realizes that Andy's holding his shoulders, not very hard, not pushing him away, just holding him there and then Gary pulls away, laughs a croak of a laugh, his throat still burning, and can’t quite bring himself to meet his eyes. Fuckfuckfuck, he thinks, gotta laugh that off , didn't mean a goddamn thing. What did I do? Whatdidido?  but then Andy runs a shaking hand through his hair and just pulls him close, hugs him so tight it makes everything hurt, but he doesn't care, because intermingled is this joy that pushes away everything else, soothes away his anxieties, his fear, even the pain that had been pulsing with his fast heartbeat in his ankle. "Its okay,” Andy says. And for that moment he can believe him, wants nothing more than to stay in that moment here, afraid of the future, even if he can't admit to himself, afraid of somehow losing Andy, but for now he won't think about that, for tonight this is all he needs.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. This has been a work in progress for more than a year. I have no idea why either, because I've had the plot since I'd first thought of it. I guess just not the motivation to write the ending. I'd love to hear what you thought of it.


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